


Home Truths

by redpantsandjam (fullonzombae)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Grief, I mean... I didn't bring Mary back, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Mourning, post s4 fix-it, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullonzombae/pseuds/redpantsandjam
Summary: After John moves back into Baker Street, Sherlock makes a decision to cut off his own family. It's then that John finally realises that even Sherlock Holmes is not completely above human emotion.





	

It feels like settling Rosie back to sleep has taken an age, and as John descends the stairs to the kitchen, he notices a faint glow from the living room. It seems that his daughter isn't the only one having trouble sleeping, he thinks quietly as he heads into the kitchen and fills a glass of water, taking in the momentary silence that is so rare for London, even at 3am.  
  
As he heads into the living room, John's eyes fall upon Sherlock, and a photo album that lays upon his lap. The photos are old; old enough to be from Sherlock's childhood, at least, and as John settles into his armchair opposite Sherlock, he watches him carefully, observing the look of concentration upon Sherlock's face.  
  
"I can't remember him. Not properly, at least," Sherlock murmurs at long last and John knows that he's talking about Victor. He sets his glass down on the end table beside him, waiting for Sherlock to carry on. "I remember him being my best friend, I remember him being Redbeard, but even now... I believe my memories have been corrupted that long, that all memories I have of him are false. Entirely false."  
  
John doesn't recognise the vulnerability in Sherlock's voice. This isn't his cocky, self assured flatmate, the man who professes to being a know it all, a bit of a dick, and every other insult John has thrown at him over the past few years. He bites back a pang of guilt at the thought, and remembers how he has - in part - lived up to each of those labels himself.  
  
"I still can't remember her, either. Should I want to?" Sherlock finally looks up at John, his expression crumpled, and John thinks for a moment that he resembles the papers that John himself screws up and tosses into the bin every time he tidies up. That is, after all, what the past few months - no, past few years - have done to Sherlock. He searches for an answer, but fails and exhales, uttering a quiet admission of not knowing.  
  
"I don't think anyone can tell you how you should feel about this," he admits, before leaning over to take the album from Sherlock. The curls that amass a younger Sherlock's forehead are more auburn, much lighter, and in one photo, Sherlock sits on one of the fake gravestones that John came to hear about from Mycroft, with his arm wrapped around a boy in a checked shirt, with a wide toothy grin. It's easy to see why he had earned the nickname Redbeard, and John looks up at Sherlock, smiling gently. "So, that's Victor?"  
  
The smile that crosses Sherlock's face fades faster than it appeared, and John flicks through the pages, finding a photo of Sherlock and a slightly younger girl - Eurus, it could only be Eurus - sharing a large picture book. Pictures speak a thousand words, and this one tells the tale of a protective brother surrendering himself to some tale that bores him to the end of the universe, and a sister who adores him completely. Idolises him, even. The same sister who sat in this flat and managed to gain Sherlock's companionship as he battled his own demons, who - if Sherlock's drug fuelled recollection was true - saw a layer of Sherlock that so many had previously overlooked. Even without knowing her, Sherlock had seen a soul so troubled that she had needed saving, and he had tried. He'd really tried.  
  
"Yes, that's Victor, and that is all I remember of him. Or all I think I remember of him, given that all I know of him is what I've been told. That's not how memories work; you don't get shown a photo, or told a name, to have it all come flooding back after thirty years of repression." Sherlock reaches for the glass of whiskey beside him, and John finds himself worrying about unhealthy coping mechanisms, about how Sherlock always relies upon a crutch of his own. "My parents had thirty years to tell me the truth, thirty years to stop hiding photos. Mycroft had his entire adult life."  
  
John closes the album and sets it to one side and leans forward in his chair, exhaling before he speaks. "That's what families do, Sherlock. They fuck up, and in the process, they fuck the kids up with it." Sherlock's head snaps up, fixing his sights on John, and he stands, slowly, the anger evident in the way his jaw lifts, his eyes narrow, and he immediately steps to the left of his armchair. Fight or flight in action, and John has triggered it.  
  
"I'm not 'fucked up', as you so delicately put it."  
  
John wants to argue otherwise, and he has a file's worth of evidence to back up his claims. But he knows now that he's found a way to shut down the conversation, that it was his turn to fuck up, and sighing with the exhaustion of a single parent and the exasperation of being the only one who has tried to understand Sherlock in the aftermath, he stands and retires to his room.  
  
The clock reads 11:17am by the time John wakes, and as he realises that Rosie isn't in her cot, a momentary panic sets in. It's soon soothed, however, by the sound of a strange clanging noise coming from downstairs, along with the excited babbles of his daughter. John dresses and makes his way downstairs, where he finds Sherlock and Rosie in the kitchen, Rosie banging a spoon erratically on an upturned pan. As she sees John, she bangs the pan harder, a drooling smile upon her face as she seeks her father's approval.

Sherlock places strips of peeled carrots upon Rosie's highchair tray, looking up at John as he does so. "Her musical talents already vastly exceed yours," Sherlock points out, and John doesn't argue as his daughter grabs a carrot stick and gnaws happily on it. He walks over and ruffles her hair as Sherlock sets down a bacon sandwich in front of him - slightly burnt, but edible all the same. "That doesn't mean I plan on recruiting either of you for a collaboration, however."  
  
John laughs, reaching for the ketchup, and then he sees the momentary look of pride that seems to come from Sherlock each time he elicits a moment of mirth from John, as if John's happiness is some prize, some trophy. "Have you eaten?"  
  
"In which time frame?" Sherlock stirs something on the stove, and John finally notices the rows of tupperware that flank the countertop. "I had something at 6:05, if that satisfies your needs to check my nutritional well-being, despite the fact that I'm capable of sustaining myself for two years without you checking up on me." The silence falls, before Sherlock issues an impromptu apology. That particular time frame, John has learned, is one that Sherlock categorically refuses to talk about, unless it's to prove a point. Sherlock turns the stove down to a simmer, before turning to sit down with the morning paper and a mug of coffee, John's mug left full but neglected on the countertop.  
  
As John polishes off his sandwich, Sherlock's phone begins to ring. Mycroft's name flashes boldly across the screen, and Sherlock lets the call go straight to voicemail. Another call, and it receives the same treatment.  
  
"You're deliberately ignoring him."  
  
"No sh... Obviously, John."  
  
He doesn't swear in front of Rosie, and John respects Sherlock's self restraint, but it is too much of a stretch for John to reach that level himself. Just three days beforehand, collecting Rosie from nursery had resulted in John being soaked by a passing driver, and John could only be thankful that his daughter still communicated in unintelligible babbles and coos. And by dropping Mr Squiggles into the nearest puddle. Had she reached the point of repeating everything John said, he feared that she would have been chanting 'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' by the time they'd reached Baker Street. Oh, he had made that mistake before, when a four-year old Archie had earnestly asked his mother - "What's a dickhead?"  
  
The phone rings again, and an unknown number flashes across the screen. This time, Sherlock turns the phone off, reaches behind him, and slides the phone into the cutlery drawer behind him, turning his attention back to the newspaper. "Text Lestrade. Tell him I'm only to be contacted by email today," he says, and John frowns as he stands to retrieve his coffee.  
  
"OK, what's Mycroft done?" John asks as he leans against the counter and peers into the saucepan beside him. Chilli. Of all the things he never thought he'd see, Sherlock cooking chilli was quite near the top of the list.  
  
Sherlock turns to look at him, and John automatically regrets his question. The look on Sherlock's face is as incredulous as the words that follow. "You did meet Eurus, yes? You were at Sherrinford, and you're vaguely aware of..." He trails off and clears his throat as he closes the paper. He makes his way to Rosie's highchair and plucks her out, balancing her carefully on his hip. She flaps her arms, and Sherlock responds by making a motion that sends her swooshing through the air before she comes back to rest on his hip.  
  
"Right, but that was... thirty years ago," John interjected, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, crouching down to pick up a picture book from the floor as he made his way to his armchair.  
  
"Wrong. It started thirty years ago and ended two months ago. Ergo, it was two months ago."

John wants to argue with Sherlock, but this is Sherlock's experience, Sherlock's pain, and despite the front Sherlock puts on, Sherlock's torment. He watches Sherlock settle into an armchair with Rosie, flicking through the pages, and he knows that this is Sherlock trying to shut down the conversation. Eurus is not discussed in this household, and these days, it seems, neither are any of the other members of the Holmes family.  
  
"You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock. Can we at least..."  
  
"What, talk about it? No, John. Talking about it solves nothing." He turns a page, and laughs as Rosie pats the picture of a dog. "No, that's not my dog," Sherlock reads, directing her hand to the patch of fluff. "His fur is too fluffy."  
  
"Fine. You won't talk to me. I get it." John sits in the armchair opposite him, and Sherlock looks up, giving him a withering look as he turns the next page.  
  
"Correction." He's interrupted by a squeal as Rosie pats the book repeatedly, before leaning down and mouthing at the page. "I won't talk to anyone about it. Talking won't bring back Victor. It won't help Eurus. It won't lead me to forgive Eurus, or Mycroft, or my parents, or anyone else complicit in allowing this to happen, allowing it to spiral. If I were to talk about it, it should have happened the moment my best friend became missing presumed dead, and it should have been done in a manner that ensured I could handle it in as healthy a manner as possible. I've had abuse victims sit in that very chair, there, John, searching for answers as to why their past doesn't tally with what everyone else tells them, asking why they don't remember family holidays, and I've had murder cases where repressed memories have caused someone to snap. Repressing memories is not healthy, and yet they allowed it."  
  
The whimper from his lap snaps Sherlock out of his rant and he realises that he's started shouting. As Rosie begins to cry, John stands and takes her, an angry glare across his face.  
  
"Yeah. Well done. Next time, maybe just keep it short, sweet and fucking quiet?"  
  
John returns to the living room 48 minutes later to find Sherlock sat in silence, his violin leaning against his torso as he tunes it. John paces the living room, an action that draws irritated looks from Sherlock, and before long, he inhales and looks up at John one last time. "Well? You've clearly got something more to say. You've paced the floor enough to have thought up just how to word it."  
  
"I'm booking you an appointment with Ella."  
  
"You do that. I won't be going."  
  
John lets out a noise of frustration, before eventually throwing himself down into the armchair opposite Sherlock. Picking at a loose thread, he licks his lips as he contemplates his next words.  
  
"Sherlock, look." He sits forward and clasps his hands in front of him, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. He knows when to expect lectures, but this... He doesn't know what this is going to be. "You're not the only one who's parents screwed up." He's answered with the rolling of eyes as Sherlock sets his violin to one side. "Granted, mine didn't allow me to repress the memory of both my sister and my best friend, but still..."  
  
"This... isn't about me." The realisation dawns and Sherlock looks back at John, his expression having softens slightly. "This..." He gestures at John, searching for the words he needs. "Is about your parents. I'm listening."  
  
"That's not what I was..."  
  
"Clearly, your father screwed up. What was he? A womaniser? A drunk? It must have been something, given that you declined to invite him to your wedding. And Harry has clearly cut contact, given that she hasn't informed him of your change of address. I've had Christmas cards for you each year since you left. So, John. What did he do."  
John's eyes close, and he doesn't see how Sherlock leans forward, watching him the way a parent watches their newborn child - with concern and fascination intermingled upon their features, ready to spring into action at the first sign anything is amiss. "Harry was fifteen when she told our parents that she's gay. I was twelve, and I'd known for some time.  
  
"When she told them, my mother instantly told her to shut up, urged her to take her words back. Begged her to realise that it was some stupid teenage phase, and not to utter such vulgarities in our house ever again. Dad sat in silence for some time, and for a while, I hoped he hadn't heard her. My father was... Very set in his ways. He spoke out against gay people. Banned the music of anyone we knew to be gay in our house. I had an Elton John record that soon found its way into the bin, a Queen tape that was destroyed before my very eyes, all before I could understand what was wrong... Not that I'm saying it's... wrong.  
Harry stuck by her words, though, and told Mum she'd have to accept it. To this day, I think Mum wanted to. But Dad was having none of it. He struck Harry, and until her sixteenth birthday, he didn't utter another word to her."  
  
John pauses, and there's an unnerving silence as he stares blankly at the patch of rug before him. Sherlock instantly recognises the guilt and shuffles forward in his chair. For a moment, he contemplates resting a comforting hand upon John's, but it's rare that John accepts such sympathy.  
  
"Her sixteenth birthday... Dad kicked her out on her sixteenth birthday. Made my big sister homeless, just because... Just because she's gay, Sherlock. And I should have spoken up, stuck up for her - I tried, but they didn't listen - I let it happen."  
  
"No, John. You didn't." Sherlock's expression is softer than John remembers, and as Sherlock's hand comes to rest on his, John looks down at where their flesh meets and remembers every time he's questioned Sherlock's sexuality, and every time he's loudly denied any affiliation with Sherlock Holmes. There's times where he still wonders about Sherlock, but it's not his place to pry. At least, that's what Molly's told him.  
  
"But this isn't about my father, Sherlock. Or me."  
  
"No, but it helps. I'm not the only one with demons, John. Despite what you'd rather I believe."  
  
John tries to suppress a guilt-laden smile and shakes his head. He knows just what Sherlock means; every time his anger has exceeded a justifiable reaction, every time he's lashed out, and as he remembers that day - that awful day - where he had beaten Sherlock within an inch of his life, John stands and pushes Sherlock's hand away.  
  
"My point is, Sherlock, parents aren't perfect. But yours... They tried..."  
  
Sherlock's expression changes once more, cold and unreactive, unfeeling. Emotionless. And John knows that he's struck the wrong chord. He sighs and scrubs his hand over his face, awaiting Sherlock's correction.  
  
"They failed to correct me. They allowed me to believe, for thirty years, that I was mourning a dog!" John winces and turns to lean upon the back of his armchair, his palms flat against the blanket that covers the back. "They allowed my sister to spend her childhood in an asylum, and I was - in part - the reason why. Had they shown any ounce of competency in their parenting, Victor would still be alive, and Eurus... I don't know. I don't know what would have happened to Eurus, but she would not be a murderer."  
  
"You can't know that."  
  
"You heard it from Mycroft. You found Victor's bones yourself, for which, I am sorry. They gave up looking, and they shouldn't have ever given up. They should have got answers from her. They should have saved him."  
  
There wasn't an argument to be had. There wasn't a way to tell Sherlock he was wrong, because, quite simply, he wasn't. John bows his head and closes his eyes, inhaling as he tries to find an answer.  
  
"They let me believe, John, that I've always been alone. Are you aware of what that does to someone?" Sherlock leans back and rubs at his brow, his own expression crumpled and confused. "And Mycroft... Uncle Rudy. Any one of them could have given me the truth. Whether I remembered it or not, that wasn't important. Anything would have sufficed. But they lied, John. For some reason, I began repressing everything, and they were willing to go along with this fiction that I invented, not caring how... not caring about the end results."  
  
John walks over to the window and looks out at the street below, watching as a couple mills outside of the pub on the corner of the road. He waits for Sherlock to carry on, turning back to face him as he contemplates just how he can guide Sherlock through this.  
  
"I want to see her," Sherlock says eventually, and John frowns, confused.  
  
"Eurus?"  
  
His answer comes in a silent nod, and John knows that something else has crossed his mind. He steps closer to Sherlock's armchair and crouches down beside him, looking up at the exhausted look upon Sherlock's face.  
  
"Of course Eurus. Who else?" Sherlock drops his hands and pushes himself up from his armchair, reaching for the photo album that still lay discarded on the table. "See, I can't remember her. But she remembers me, so vividly. She hasn't repressed Musgrave Place, which means she's the only one who knows everything that happened there. After all, she's the one who disposed of Victor. John, I had a friend. Before you, I had a friend, and I don't remember him. I need the truth, because I sit here and listen to clients talk about their tragic losses, about their traumas, and I don't... Every case I've had since Eurus, John, I envy them. What, with their memories. Knowing who they are, what they've lost. I envy them."  
  
It's a frank honesty, and John sinks down, sitting with his back to the fireplace as he listens to Sherlock.  
  
"Mary. I have memories of Mary. And one day, Rosie will be envious of that. But at least she won't have memories that are nothing more than lies. I still try to draw memories of Victor, of Eurus, and all I see is a dog. I remember fragments of a conversation, and I remember how Mother was so frustrated with me every time... I asked her if I could have a little sister once, because Mycroft was boring me. I never understood what I did wrong. Mycroft took it upon himself to inform me that she was upset, and that it was my fault. A lot became my fault that way, John."  
  
"Mary."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Mary. It makes sense now. After I ... After she died, you blamed yourself. I blamed you, and you accepted the blame. You've accepted the blame for everything I've thrown at you, and you've always taken the blame..." There's a pause and John brings his hand up to rest on Sherlock's arm. "Mary wasn't your fault, Sherlock. And what I did to you at that hospital wasn't your fault."  
  
"John, this isn't about that."  
  
"No, but it is." He watches as Sherlock looks at him, watches as Sherlock judges his words carefully.  
  
"This is you trying to assuage your own guilt," Sherlock interrupts, and John can't argue with him. "You've finally come to the realisation that I'm not as cold and unfeeling as you seem to mistake me for - as I'd rather those who do not know me would consider me to be - and you insist on expressing your guilt now, so that I have one less person to feel angry towards? Or is it so that I misdirect my anger at you, John? Because I can assure you, I can maintain my anger at everything else and still feel it towards you. What does that achieve?"  
  
John falls silent, knowing that Sherlock is right. He closes his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the rant that has been hurled at him, and pushes himself up uneasily from the floor. "Tea. That's what you need. A..."  
  
"Stop trying to fix things." Sherlock's voice sounds weak, defeated, and John looks down at him, surprised to see how Sherlock's face has crumpled, how his friend sits before him on the brink of tears. "Not everything can be fixed. You of all people should know that. You're back here, after all. And now, I empathise, John. I truly do. I finally know what it's like to have your life completely upturned..." He trails off, and lets out a sob, before trying to steady himself.  
  
He doesn't know where the next movement comes from. He's hugged Sherlock once before. He's been held by Sherlock in an unreciprocated embraced, as John sobbed over lies, betrayal, loss and not knowing how to cope without Mary. But it was something that Mary had once said, mostly joking, as John ranted on about Sherlock's latest moods. "Perhaps he just needs a hug." John had laughed the comment off at the time, but now he stands, leaning over Sherlock as he wraps his arms around him. It's enough, and Sherlock crumples, dissolving into a broken sob as he finally lets go.  
  
Eventually, Sherlock stills and the tears stop, and John leans back, smiling softly as he looks down at his friend. Sherlock wipes away a tear and makes his apologies. It's fine. He's fine. John knows that's a lie, but he's not going to correct him. Instead, he marvels at how much fragility has taken them both by surprise, lingering in the air as Sherlock tries to work out how to deal with this momentary weakness. It's beautiful and tragic, and Sherlock looks so soft and vulnerable that for a moment, John wonders just how much of the past six years has been an act. He holds Sherlock in a silent regard, his gaze dropping momentarily to Sherlock's lips, and after a moment's hesitation, leans forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips.  
  
It's not perfect. It's messy, and perhaps not the best timed. But he feels Sherlock's hand on the back of his neck, and he knows three things. It's what he wants, it's what Sherlock wants, and maybe - just maybe - it's a sign that everything will be okay.


End file.
